


Your Holy Water Oceans

by FayeWildwood



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (sort of), Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Hanahaki Disease, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sick Crowley (Good Omens), Temporary Character Death, excessive use of "perhaps", holy water instead of flowers, not sure what else to tag, some gore in the sense of normal Hanahaki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 14:02:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20707214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayeWildwood/pseuds/FayeWildwood
Summary: "Nanny, are you dying?" Warlock had asked one day after Crowley finished coughing into a rag.It was shoved quickly into her skirt pockets as she glanced down at the boy. "Now, why ever would you think that, my little devil?"Warlock shrugged, picking at his blanket and trying to hide his frown. "My nana used to cough a lot, and then mom said she died and went to hell. Are you going to hell, nanny?"On normal circumstances, Crowley might have laughed at this. But it was not a normal circumstance and Crowley's throat hurt too terribly to laugh. "No need, my dear. I can visit hell whenever I like. If I do die, well I suppose I won't go anywhere.""Why not?""Well, I don't much care for hell, and heaven won't have me. So I suppose I would just float out in space," she said a bit sadly. "The stars are lovely this time of year."OrThe author really wanted to write a Hanahaki AU. So here you go.





	Your Holy Water Oceans

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Holy Hanahaki](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19889716) by [Silverdragonwolveshowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverdragonwolveshowl/pseuds/Silverdragonwolveshowl). 

> So I read the WONDERFUL story "Holy Hanahaki" by Silverdragonwolveshowl and got inspired to do my own. They had the idea for Holy Water instead of flowers, so credit due there. This is my first ever Hanahaki fic so, be gentle. Enjoy!

It started in the Sixties, after what Crowley has named the "Holy Water Incident". 

Now, the esteemed reader might be asking a few questions. What started? Why did it start? And I promise I'll get to that in time. Suffice it to say for now though, that it started with the very simple words, "you go too fast for me, Crowley". Words simple enough to the untrained eye, perhaps. But we know better, don't we? Because up until then, a demon named Crowley might have had a stupid amount of hope bubbling in his chest. He might- if tortured enough- admit the strong, loving friendship he had with an angel named Aziraphale. He wouldn't however admit how that friendship blossomed into something much, much stronger.

There are a few complications that come with that friendship however. Namely the fact that the demon Crowley was indeed a demon, and the angel Aziraphale was indeed an angel. Natural enemies, working on opposite sides. They were supposed to hate each other. They were supposed to thwart each other. But if this story is to go anywhere productive, you'll need to know one vital thing about both of our beloved characters.

They never do what they're supposed to.

Which brings us back to the demon Crowley and the beginning of time- or as he was called back then, Crawly. He was a dastardly demon, that was for sure. Perhaps a little desperate for attention after the fall, so he agreed to a job no one else had the balls to do. And he met an Angel along the way. The Principality of the Eastern Gate. All it took was a flaming sword and a shielding wing for the demon to fall again. And again. And again. And throughout history Crowley found himself drawn to the angel, craving his attention, his little smiles, his angelic aura. Oh how he loved to tease the him. It was all too easy to get a rise out of him.

Then the church happened, and his angel stared at him with such a look that he thought he might melt right then and there.

Now, if this was another story all together, one might think It started Then. But this is not the case. Because Then was a hopeful moment, where as the "Holy Water Incident" was a crushing one. 

_"You go too fast for me, Crowley."_

And the angel was gone. They didn't speak for quite a while after that. It was then that Crowley first felt the burning. It was deep in his chest, flooding his lungs like the salt water in the ocean. Oh and it hurt. Hurt so much that Crowley nearly collapsed once he'd gotten back to his flat.

But eventually it subsided. It was still there, still churning and aching, like an age old scar that never did heal, but the agonizing burn was gone. Every once in a while, when Crowley would see a particularly interesting book, or a tartan thermos, he might feel that burn creep up his throat. Like a sickening promise. A warning, perhaps.

But he refused to let it escape.

Until of course, the Antichrist was born. Everything went a bit tits up then. 

It was then that he first realized what was happening, what it was that burned inside of him. Because after that first encounter with the angel after decades, he found himself crumpled on the floor of his flat vomiting holy water. 

And it was holy water. He would recognize the scent of it, the burn of it, anywhere. It was murky with blood, and the inside of his throat was charred raw with it. There were splotches of burnt skin and rivers of blood on his lips and chin when he finally managed to stand at look at himself in the mirror. They healed, of course they did, but the burn of them didn't go away and it hurt to breathe. Satan, did it hurt. 

The demon Crowley imagined there was an ocean of holy water in his lungs, just sloshing about, destroying whatever it came in contact with, including air.

How he was still alive, he wasn't sure. But of one thing he knew for absolute certainty, he mustn't tell Aziraphale. Because he was _nearly _certain that he was dying. Whatever it was that was happening, whatever punishment this was... It would kill him.

It only got worse while he was playing nanny with Warlock. Because this was the first time Crowley had seen Aziraphale for such a long period of time. They usually only met up a few decades or centuries apart but now... Now he couldn't walk past a window without seeing a tuft of golden hair, or turn a corner without hearing that angelic laughter, and he knew it was destroying him.

"Nanny, are you dying?" Warlock had asked one day after Crowley finished coughing into a rag. 

It was shoved quickly into her skirt pockets as she glanced down at the boy. "Now, why ever would you think that, my little devil?"

Warlock shrugged, picking at his blanket and trying to hide his frown. "My nana used to cough a lot, and then mom said she died and went to hell. Are you going to hell, nanny?"

On normal circumstances, Crowley might have laughed at this. But it was not a normal circumstance and Crowley's throat hurt too terribly to laugh. "No need, my dear. I can visit hell whenever I like. If I do die, well I suppose I won't go anywhere."

"Why not?"

"Well, I don't much care for hell, and heaven won't have me. So I suppose I would just float out in space," she said a bit sadly. "The stars are lovely this time of year."

Warlock had hugged her then, with tears in his eyes and fingers clutching and grabbing. He didn't want her to die, he told her. He didn't want her to leave him all alone. It broke Crowley's heart a bit, as she had grown quite attached to the boy- and would remain attached even after finding out he was indeed not the Antichrist they were looking for. So instead of scolding him, she hugged him back and promised him that death was only a part of life, and that no matter what happened, she would never leave him. Then she pressed a gentle kiss into his hair, and with it, miracled the memory away.

She didn't need him crying to Aziraphale, or his mother for that matter.

And then the "Hell Hound Incident" happened and the "Alpha Centuri Incident", and Crowley had decided he no longer liked how many _incidents _were wracking up on his list. But how could they not, when he spent hours and hours with holy water forcing its way out of his throat.

_"We aren't friends, Crowley."_

_"I don't even like you." _

_"I forgive you."_

Go- Sat- somebody help him. He was a mess, falling apart at the seams because he'd fallen in love with the one creature on Earth he could never have. 

Oh how ironic it was, that he was the one being tempted. 

And it was only worse after that. The holy water was mostly blood now. His throat was always raw and though he didn't need to, it still hurt to breathe. Hurt to speak. He managed to miracle away the scars on his lips from the burns, but his tongue was still swollen and angry, his lisp even worse than usual. He couldn't even taste the wine anymore. Anything he ate or drank just tasted like ash, like the burning of heaven's greatest weapon as it scorched it's way through his very being.

It wouldn't be long now.

The night after their date at the Ritz had been the worst of it by far. The gentle smiles, the Angel calling him good. It was too much, too much. Crowley had to decline a trip to the bookshop for desert and drinks because he could barely speak without water gurgling at the back of his throat. By the time he made it home, his chin and neck were burnt a nasty red, his collarbones protruding from under the skin that melted away to muscle. His shirt was soaked and it ate at his fingers as he ripped it off, collapsing in front of the bathtub as another round hit him full force. 

How long he was there, he wasn't sure. It could have been hours, days, weeks. He had no way to tell. He measured time by how often he passed out, by the depth of the scars. His lips were chapped and cracked from constantly healing and burning and healing and burning.

His phone rang a few times, but he had no energy to get up off the floor, much less to answer it.

He wondered how long it had been when a knock at the door woke him again. The crack under the bathroom door was dark so he assumed it to be nighttime. His glasses were long since broken and shattered against one of the walls. The bathtub was stained a washed out red on the bottom and he'd given up on miracling away his scars long ago. 

How long ago had it been?

"Crowley?"

Ah, and now he was hallucinating. He must be very close now. How painful would it be, he wondered, to drown in his own ocean of blood and water. Would he fight back, like he was suffocating on his own bile? Or would he simply drift away in the water?

He was contemplating the pros and cons of just dropping himself into the filled bathtub and melting away when the next knock sounded.

"Crowley? I know you're in there. The Bentley is outside. Oh I do wish you would tell me what I've done. Whatever it is, I am terribly sorry. You must believe that."

_"I forgive you."_

He didn't answer of course. He couldn't. Aziraphale wasn't really here after all, and how could he speak with a sea spilling forth from his lungs.

"Crowley?" 

At least he would die hearing his angel's voice. That would be nice.

"I'm coming in! Whatever this is, I'm sure we can work it out! Two months is quite enough time apart, I think."

The door creaked open at the front of his loft, footsteps echoing through the empty rooms. Crowley had no energy to lock the bathroom door, not that it would have done any good to an angel, even if he _was _really here.

And then he was. Here that is. Standing in all his angelic beauty in the doorway of Crowley's bloody bathroom.

He looked beautiful as always, perfectly put together and lovely. Even with the look of terror on his face.

If he could move, if he could speak, Crowley would have demanded to know who put such an ugly expression on the Angel's face. He would threaten to tear them limb from limb. Sink his teeth into them and suck them dry. To dare frighten his angel.

It wasn't until Aziraphale was on his knees before him, dragging the limp demon Crowley into his lap that he realized it was himself that put that expression there. Ah, suppose he was dying anyway. Suppose he deserved it. 

"Crowley," the Angel named Aziraphale breathed, tears brimming those baby blue eyes and fingers clutching at any skin that wasn't burnt to a crisp. "Oh, oh, Crowley. Dear, who did this? What- how- is it holy water?"

Now, I find it important to note a fact about angels. See most people put off a radius of heat when they are near. A body temperature the humans call it. Well many might think that angels and demons would do the same. They would be wrong in the case if Anthony J. Crowley, as he is a serpent in his natural form. He is always cold, seeking out warmth. They would also be wrong in the case of Aziraphale, Principality of the Eastern Gate. Angels you see put off a perfectly comfortable chill. Not enough to freeze, but more to the liking of a gentle breeze on a too-warm day. I say this because due to the burning of the holy water on Crowley's skin, the chill of Aziraphale's aura is quite a relief and he sinks into it like a particularly comfortable throw. 

"Crowley, please do talk to me. Who did this? What is happening?"

And through the burn and the gurgle and the water, he answered. Because the demon known as Crowley could never deny his angel anything. Never. "I'm dying," he said simply. Partially because he didn't know what else to say, and partially because just those two words brought up another violent cough of water that stained the tan sleeves of the angels beloved coat. "Sss'rry."

"Sorry? You better be bloody sorry. You are not going to die on me, Crowley. I-I... I simply won't allow it! Get better at once!"

He couldn't tell if Aziraphale was joking or not, but his laugh was lost in a bubbling creek that burned a river down his chin.

"Hurts," he mumbled, leaning his head into the angel's shoulder. "Not g'tting better... Too late for that."

"Oh- I refuse to believe that. Please tell me what's happening. Why-"

He was cut off when Crowley lurched in his arms, holy water and blood spraying across his white floors as he seized violently. He rolled himself out of grabbing hands, pressing his hands to the too cold tile as he spilled the ocean across the floor. 

Perhaps, you may think, that he should pray to God one last time. Perhaps, you might say, she would take pity on one of her favorite sons. But then perhaps he already has, and perhaps she hasn't answered. Perhaps she didn't care. Or perhaps she did.

"Crowley!"

"Demons can't love, Angel," he managed to get out as blood dribbled from his lips. "It killssss us."

"Love? Love is doing this to you?" He wondered in surprise. 

This was a foreign concept to the angel known as Aziraphale, because you see, angels love everything. Everything they do is done in love. They can feel it in the air, taste it. Angels are indeed made of divine love. So the idea that love of all things is what is punishing the demon known as Crowley, is a bit ridiculous to the angel. "But- but why?"

Crowley shrugged, resting his forehead on the tile when it seemed like the tides were resting in his lungs. The pull of the angel moon was calmer for a few moments at least. "Punishment," he guessed, "for loving someone we aren't supposed to. For loving sssssomeone who can't love us back."

His words slurred on his aching tongue and he knew this would be it. He wouldn't make it through the night, probably wouldn't make it through the hour.

Oh well. Had a good go of it, didn't he? And dying in the angel's arms was a good way to go, he supposed. Though he did wish to at least save the angel the grief.

"Can't love you back?" He repeated, frowning. "Oh Crowley, tell me who it is. I will find them and bring them here. I will make them love you if I have to. I-I..." Aziraphale's voice cracked dangerously and a sob wrecked its way out of his throat. He gathered the demon back into his arms and cried into his limp hair. "I just got you back. I can't loose you again."

Crowley hummed, the tides pushing behind his teeth, threatening to spill over one last time. "Love you," he finally said. "L've you... Angel. Alwaysss you."

"You- Me?"

Crowley didn't hear the word however as whatever force was filling his lungs with endless amounts of holy water was busy drowning him. Suffocating him from the inside out. He was dying, and nothing now could stop it.

Or perhaps, you might hope, something could.

"Oh Crowley. You stupid, stupid demon. You bloody, idiotic, stubborn, insecure, damned... Idiot. Oh you've put yourself through all of this pain for no reason," the Angel laughed, the sound echoed on the backs of his tears. He pressed his face into Crowley's red hair, hiccuping a giggle. "Oh my dear I love you. I love you so very much. I think perhaps since the beginning, though it took me a while to admit it to myself. Do you hear me, you foul fiend? I love you. I love you. I love you. Oh please," he begged, glancing up at the ceiling as if she had ever answered him before. "Please God, don't take him from me. Now now, not after everything. Please."

But the loft remained silent and the demon formerly known as Crowley remained motionless. The only sound now was the wails of a principality, who began his duties on the Eastern Gate of Eden, and found himself falling, not from heaven's grace, but in love with a demon. 

All else was quiet.

Until it wasn't.

"Angel?"


End file.
